flash
Monica blinked once, twice, as her eyes scanned Nathan Whitaker from head to toe. She looked past the damp shoulders of his custom charcoal overcoat, past the expensive tailoring beneath, and straight into eyes that looked like winter ice. Monica had lived on Madison Avenue long enough to recognize money, but more importantly, she recognized power. And Nathan Whitaker was radiating a lethal, controlled fury that made every salesperson in the store take an involuntary step back. / Chapter 3 / 10

Chapter 3 - The Phone Call That Shook the FamilyThe restaurant where Brooke Whitaker was finishing her mimosa was filled with the soft clink of silverware and the murmur of privileged laughter. Her phone buzzed against the marble tabletop.

Thinking it was her husband, or perhaps a boutique update about Claire’s humiliating exit, Brooke picked it up with a smug smile.

"Well? Was she thrown out by the hair?" Brooke laughed into the receiver.

It wasn't the boutique manager on the other end. It was the general manager of Whitaker Capital’s primary retail holdings, a man who sounded like he had just swallowed a live grenade.

"Mrs. Whitaker," the voice stammered. "We have an emergency."

Brooke’s smile faltered. "What are you talking about? Who is this?"

"It’s David Vance, retail operations. Mr. Whitaker just made an emergency account sweep through Verelle Madison Avenue. He bought out half the winter inventory on the spot."

Brooke sat up straight, her mimosa sloshing over the rim. "Nathan was at Verelle? Why would Nathan be at Verelle?"

"Because," David swallowed hard, "he walked in while store management was attempting to remove his wife."

The restaurant around Brooke seemed to blur. A cold knot twisted violently in her stomach. "His... his wife? Claire was just visiting—"

"Mrs. Whitaker, Nathan Whitaker is currently drafting a formal letter of complaint to the board of directors of Verelle’s parent company, demanding the termination of the regional VP for associate misconduct against his wife. He also requested the security footage. All of it."

Brooke dropped her phone. It hit the table with a sharp clatter, the screen lighting up with a fresh text message from an unknown number.

Her hands were shaking as she picked it back up. The message contained a single photo: Claire Whitaker, wearing the faded denim jacket, standing beside Nathan inside Verelle, holding a receipt bearing a total that looked like a down payment on a Manhattan penthouse.

Beneath the photo was a text from Nathan himself:

Next time you test my wife, Brooke, make sure you're ready for the score.

May you like

The heavy mahogany door of the dressing room seemed to close in on us, trapping the suffocating tension inside. Richard’s hands were shaking as he clutched the small, tarnished silver pendant. His knuckles were bone-white.

The heavy mahogany door of the dressing room seemed to close in on us, t...

The heavy silver fork slipped from my fingers, clattering sharply against the gold-rimmed porcelain of my dinner plate.

The heavy silver fork slipped from my fingers, clattering sharply agains...

The heavy mahogany door of the Fairmont Copley suite clicked shut with a muffled, expensive thud.

The heavy mahogany door of the Fairmont Copley suite clicked shut with a...

Brooke stared at the screen, the blood draining from her face. She had spent six months treating Claire like an impoverished stray, a charity case Nathan had picked up out of boredom.

She had no idea the stray was married to a man who owned the leash.

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